


Touches

by Leah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Blowjobs, M/M, This Is STUPID, and we're not "let me give you porn" kind of friends, okay i'm writing this for a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah/pseuds/Leah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock each revel in the other's sheer existence for a while. That is, until they realize they can do more than worship from afar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touches

There is only one dark green, leather couch in 221B, and it sits like a throne at the head of the living room, gazing down upon the whole of the flat. It is placed in the perfect place, where Sherlock can drag himself up the stairs only to immediately fall forward, face-first into the cushions; or where John can sit, one foot propped on his knee, sipping his tea as he watches the morning news, scanning for cases while Sherlock slumbers in his room. 

Sherlock loves his sofa, the way it has worn with the shape of his body over the years, the way its color seems to blend in with any setting, the way it has stayed with him, even when flat-mates, family members, and his own mind wouldn’t; which explains why Sherlock is draped across the entirety of the couch, pretending to be engrossed in some television program as John shuffles into the living room, grumbling at the massive amounts of laundry sitting on the other chairs.

John lets out a mildly irritated sigh as he begins halfheartedly picking shirts off his armchair one by one. 

“John,” Sherlock mumbles, graciously evacuating half of the cushion his feet are occupying, “here.”

“Oh, thanks,” John answers, crossing the room in a few steps before squeezing into his spot. Sherlock hesitates a moment, trying to decide how much contact is too much, before letting his feet weave their way onto John’s lap, not realizing how cold his toes had become until they felt John’s warmth leaking out of his legs. John fidgets for a moment before resting his hands on Sherlock’s ankles, sparks flying up his arms as he settles into the meaningless television flicking across the screen before him.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“Sherlock, you have to eat, eventually,” John grumbles, mostly to himself, as he sets a plate of food that will only be ignored on the arm of the couch, where Sherlock has fixed himself for a majority of the day. Sometimes, John wonders why he sticks around when, for days on end, he lives with a completely silent, sleep-deprived man who’s getting by purely on nicotine and nerves firing in his brain, but, when the silence finally breaks, and Sherlock reminds John of his wickedly sharp mind, John resigns himself to the cycle time after time. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, I’ve got a good four days left before I have to eat,” Sherlock mumbles through his hands, which are perched against his pursed lips. He pulls his feet under his body, forgetting, as predicted, about the precariously placed dinner. 

“You won’t even humor me?” John asks, plopping beside Sherlock on the couch with his own plate of spaghetti.   
Sherlock rolls his eyes towards John.  
John returns the gaze as he swivels himself on the leather couch, leaning his back against the arm as he shovels forkfuls of pasta around the porcelain plate. He tries not to worry about Sherlock, but he can’t ignore the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind when Sherlock gets like this.

“You’re not eating, either,” Sherlock scoffs, stifling a chuckle when John feebly jabs his feet against his legs. Sherlock suddenly feels an old worry rise up in his thought that feels like he is somehow going to cause John some kind of harm. After all, he’s not attuned to this kind of lifestyle, not yet.

“I guess not,” John mumbles back, getting ready to set his plate on the carpet, but not pulling his feet away from Sherlock’s thighs. 

“If I were to eat, would you?” Sherlock asks, willing to sacrifice this most recent case’s fast for John’s wellbeing. 

“I guess,” John shrugs, letting the fork clink against the plate as it drops. 

“I guess,” Sherlock echoes, edging his plate closer to himself and picking out a single noodle with his fork. Letting out a deep breath, he uses his teeth to pull it off. 

John lets a surprised gasp escape his lips.

Sherlock lets a smirk dance across his face.

“Now you,” he mumbles, getting ready to scoop another measly bite onto his fork, grinning John bends down to retrieve his plate, relieved both that John is going to eat and that he didn’t move his feet from their resting place against Sherlock’s own body.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

John lets out a gasp as, suddenly, the ground is rapidly approaching his face. He puts his hands out to catch himself before too much damage can be done. Sherlock is on him in an instant, pulling him out of the gutter and back onto the sidewalk, forcing him to lean against a parked car as he fusses over John.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock demands, gently unfolding John’s fingers and revealing a nasty cut where a piece of stray glass had sliced John’s palm. 

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John laughs, trying to pull his hand away from Sherlock’s, only to have Sherlock grasp his wrist. Sherlock presses closer to John, wrapping his black scarf around the wound, in an effort to staunch the blood flow. 

“You’re bleeding, John,” Sherlock says, simply, studying the rest of John’s body in an effort to decide if he needs any more medical attention. 

John simply chuckles a quiet chuckle and uses his good hand to catch one of Sherlock’s as it flutters around, trying to fix everything but not knowing where to start. John presses Sherlock’s palm against his cheek and murmurs, “I’m okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock marvels in the way John’s skin feels on his, something that is strictly unique to John. It sends sparks flying up Sherlock’s spine, makes his world Technicolor, spins his head through loops when his hand happens to graze John’s, when he bumps into John when trying to navigate their surprisingly small kitchen, when John shares the couch with him and allows Sherlock to use him as a footstool. 

“Of course you are,” Sherlock mumbles, letting his hand linger for a moment before pulling it away. “Now, let’s get back to Baker Street and bandage that hand.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

John’s mind drifts away from him as Sherlock meticulously works over his hand, and, suddenly, he’s not sure if it’s due to the closeness of Sherlock or the lack of blood running through his brain. Suddenly, Sherlock murmurs a soft warning before wetting a cloth with some peroxide and dabs at the wound. John hisses, his arm naturally jerking away from the sting. 

“Stay still, please. Honestly, John, for being a doctor, you are the worst patient,” Sherlock says in a snarky voice. Still, John feels his touches become gentler. 

“I’ll be fine,” John replies, leaning his head against the back of the leather couch as Sherlock begins to bandage up a large portion of his palm. “Because, for being a high-functioning sociopath, you are an alright doctor.”  
John doesn’t need to hear Sherlock’s stifled chuckle to know he’s smirking. 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The credits are rolling. 

The next show is starting.

John should be getting up.

But he isn’t. 

Instead, he’s leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder in a blissful slumber, completely oblivious to the world around him. Sherlock leans his cheek against the top of John’s head, feeling his soft hair brush over his skin, sending chills up and down his spine. He almost shivers, but stops himself, fearing he’ll wake John up. 

Rather, John moves in his sleep, slipping of Sherlock’s arm and onto his lap, where his legs are crisscrossed into a perfect headrest for John. Sherlock smiles and sets his hand on John’s shoulder, absently picking at the fluff on his sweater, while his other hand runs through John’s hair, toying with the sleep-addled strands. 

Sherlock immerses himself into the next movie, The Breakfast Club, trying to turn off his over-analysis just for an hour and a half. It kind of works, and Sherlock smiles as he realizes John would be proud.

Half-way through the film, Sherlock feels John blink into consciousness again, but makes no move to let go of John’s hair, and John makes no move to sit up. Instead, they sit in comfortable silence, watching the events play out on the screen, until the end when John turns to lie on his back, staring up at Sherlock’s face. 

He’s pleased to see how relaxed Sherlock seems to be, and he can’t help the cheesy grin that takes over his face and intensifies when Sherlock catches it. 

“What is it, John?” 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s hair, playfully.

“I think I’m in love with you, Sherlock Holmes,” John replies, relishing the way Sherlock seems caught off guard and   
lets his fingers slacken. 

“I think you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock answers, disbelieving. John props himself up on his elbows, balancing his weight carefully so his sharp joints won’t dig into Sherlock’s sensitive skin. Sherlock tries to look everywhere but John’s rapidly approaching face. 

However, it catches no one by surprise when John’s lips brush against Sherlock’s before pulling away. Unbeknownst to the other, both men feel electric shocks running from their fingertips to their toes, lighting their nerves on fire as they pass. Sherlock follows John and presses their lips together once again, nipping at John’s lightly. John doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this level of enthusiasm. They pull away momentarily, only to catch their breath, crashing together once again in a needy kiss made up of teeth and pure want. Not releasing Sherlock, John adjusts himself, so his knees are pinned against Sherlock’s thighs, and he wraps his fingers in the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck. 

Suddenly, John loses himself in the need, kissing trails up and down Sherlock’s neck as he rolls his hips against Sherlock’s, loving the small gasp that escapes from Sherlock when he does. John smiles against Sherlock’s skin before clamping down on it again and sucking lightly, leaving a faint purple mark behind. Sherlock’s hands find themselves on John’s hips, his fingers finding their way under the heavy wool of the sweater to lightly scratch the skin there. He runs his hands up John’s back, worshipping the way his muscles work as John subtly moves himself downward, until his knees are on the carpet. 

Sherlock is suddenly aware of what John intends on doing, and almost loses it completely. Instead, he leans forward, attacking John’s lips one more time as John begins undoing Sherlock’s belt, before rewrapping his hands in John’s hair and wondering how he could be so lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> uhm sorry :)


End file.
